


Come Into My Parlor

by Callmesalticidae, shadow_wasserson



Series: The Gods Have Horns [14]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Crushes, Death and Resurrection, Drunkenness, F/F, F/M, Godstuck, Guilt, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Pesterlog(s) (Homestuck), Serket meetings, Shooshpaps, Unrequited Crush, angel scouts, discussion of quadrants, mention of Eridan/Feferi, mention of Vriska/Eridan, mention of Vriska/Tavros, pale piles, secret meetings, slumber party, the trolls are gods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:02:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25697734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callmesalticidae/pseuds/Callmesalticidae, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_wasserson/pseuds/shadow_wasserson
Summary: Who is the spider, and who is the fly?Visitations from the Thief of Light.
Relationships: Eridan Ampora/Original Character(s), Eridan Ampora/Rose Lalonde, Rose Lalonde/Vriska Serket
Series: The Gods Have Horns [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/202529
Comments: 14
Kudos: 30





	1. The Souse of Sauce

Your name is Rose Lalonde, and you are incredibly, bitterly cold. It’s late Libra in Antarctica, and you’re trudging through whipping wind and flying bits of ice. It’s not quite a blizzard yet, but it’s building to one, and it’s probably well below zero Fahrenheit, though you’re not sure how much so.

You try to peek to the side, but your peripheral vision is blocked by your snow visor and your range of motion is hindered by your layers of scarves, gaiters, and coats. Eridan is wrapped up too. He'll take temperatures down to freezing without complaint, but in cold this intense he’s nearly as uncomfortable as you.

You shiver, even through five layers of clothing. The wind cuts into you wherever the merest sliver of skin is exposed.

Eridan’s manor is ahead, but snow has covered the path. He could have flown you right to the door without any extra effort, but he seems to like walking a little in the snow first. He says it helps keep him grounded.

You’ve been here before. This is your second austral summer with Eridan. You stayed with your mother for the boreal summer, though the Prince often took you on field excursions even then. You think you wouldn’t mind staying the winter here, but Eridan didn't seem fond of the proposition. Maybe this year you can convince him.

Still, it is very, _very_ cold. You stumble slightly on the ice, and he catches your arm. He says something, but the wind and layers of fabric muffle his voice beyond legibility. You wonder, somewhat embarrassed and somewhat hopeful, if he’s going to just fly you to the door.

But he doesn’t. The both of you continue to pick your way forward - and Eridan stops.

He points, but you can’t see anything of note. You are so cold. You decide to keep going, but the wind shifts and this time you can hear the god speak.

“Someone is in my hive. Wait here.”

You turn with great effort, and look at him. “Eridan,” you say, your lips and tongue feeling stiff and numb. “You can’t imagine how cold I am right now. I am in desperate need of a furnace.”

“Wait _here_ ,” he repeats, and straightens, shaking purple wings out of his coat. In the space of a blink, a wicked rifle is in his hands. “I don’t know who is in there, and you are not immortal.”

“Precisely,” you reply, your chattering teeth sapping the venom from your words. “If I stay out here I’ll freeze to death.”

The god sighs. “Fine. Follow me closely, and arm yourself.”

He starts marching towards the manor at a faster clip (was he going slowly before, to keep pace with you?), while you fumble with your small duffel, extracting your knitting needles. Unlike the Prince, you can’t have your weapons in hand at an instant’s notice.

You rush to keep pace with your mentor. Soon, you can see what he saw: that the door to the manor is open.

Eridan pauses at the manor’s entrance. From above the ground, his abode looks like the airlock to some kind of nuclear bunker dome. He peers inside, then steps in. You follow, sighing with relief at getting some shelter from the wind.

The immediate interior of the manor is stone-floored, with antique coat hooks and boot racks, before opening up to a sumptuous foyer. Right now, it’s all coated in a thin layer of snow, due to the door having been left callously open.

Eridan heads straight for the middle of the room. He’s at least a foot taller than he was a moment ago, and no longer wearing the heavy coat, but rather a fur-trimmed version of his godhood, embellished with sigils and brass. He’s trying to look intimidating, and if you weren’t used to his dramatics by now you might fall for it.

"Who is here?” he calls. “Reveal yourself at once!"

There is silence.

“I said,” he repeats. “wwho is here. revveal yourself at once!”

While he continues his attempts at intimidation, you decide to close the door. It’s letting in the frigid air, and your toes are numb inside your insulated boots.

There is still no answer forthcoming. You turn from the door and look back at Eridan, who appears to be listening intently, his eyes narrow.

“you don’t wwant to make me angry, do-”

Suddenly, his eyes go wide, and his jaw drops. “Oh. I can’t believe it. Of all the stupid-”

He folds his wings and strides off, towards the kitchen.

You follow, wishing that the furnace was on. The interior of the manor is out of the wind, but it’s still frigid, and the control panel for the heat is retina-locked to Eridan alone. Your fingers, clumsy from the cold even in their gloves, clutch your needles more tightly.

The kitchen is lavish, like everything else in the manor, with fancy countertops and ivory utensils and mahogany cabinets full of lovely antique china.

Right now, the kitchen is also a mess. The cabinets and drawers have all been opened and ransacked. Empty jars are lying around, on the table and on the floor, some rolling on their sides. And there, sprawled over the frosted glass table, clutching an empty glass jar in one hand, blue gossamer wings drooping and dragging on the floor, is a goddess in an orange hood.

Eridan facepalms. “You’ve got to be fuckin’ kiddin’ me.”

The Thief of Light, because who else could it be, turns her face towards the both of you and grunts. “Shuddup.”

The Prince groans through his fingers. “I feel as though I should apologize on behalf a’ the entire concept of divinity, though a’ course I know you would not judge based on such a small sample.”

“Shut uuuuuuuup!”

Eridan lowers his hand and looks at her, obviously disgusted. “Breakin’ and enterin’, Vris? Really?”

“Fuck you, Eridan!” The goddess, with some difficulty, pushes herself upright, and staggers to her feet, swaying. “Fuck you and f8ck your angels! You think they can get to me? Well, they can’t!”

You watch this egregious display with interest and some degree of amusement. “I never realized that one of the gods was a drunk,” you note. “I wonder if this is why my mother is so devout?”

Eridan bends down to pick one of the fallen jars. “How much of this have you been eatin’?”

“You’ve been stockpiling it!” The Thief is talking at a quite unnecessary volume. “Why, you think there’s gonna be a shortage?”

“There might be one now,” you quip.

Eridan wrinkles his upper lip, obviously miffed. “I can appreciate a good vintage.” He glances at the jar, which is labeled with a script you aren’t familiar with. “3900? That was a good century, dammit Vris!”

“Yes.” The Thief, Vris, half-smiles. “It was reaaaaaaaally delicious.”

“Vriska. Get out of my hive.”

The drunk goddess isn’t budging, so you decide to introduce yourself. You step forward and extend your hand.

“Excuse me. I don’t think we’ve been introduced. My name is Rose Lalonde. You might know my mother?”

Eridan tenses behind you, and the Thief just stares, eyes unfocused. And yes, true to the scriptures, she has seven pupils in the left one.

But neither of them stop you, so you continue. “…and you must be the Souse of Sauce, if I may be so bold as to use your godly title?”

The Thief smiles, and looks behind you, at Eridan. “How cute. What is she, ten?”

“Fourteen, if you don’t mind. Nearly fifteen.”

“Good for you.” She sways, giggles tipsily, and looks at Eridan again. “What level of Angel Scout is that? Never mind. I don’t care.”

Eridan is kneading his forehead with his fingertips. “Why are you here, Vris?”

The goddess looks back to you. “I’m the Thief of Luck. I mean Light. Ha ha fuck.”

You sigh, and fancy that if you closed your eyes it would almost be exactly like being back at home with your mother. You feel irritated at the familiarity.

“Shall I clean up after you?” you ask, voice laced more strongly with bitterness than you’d intended. “Believe me, I am well-versed in the ways of the Souse. I am intimately familiar with the ginwasted haze of the merrydrunks, and I have heard them slur in the pisspickled throes of the wineplastered tongues.”

The Thief blinks slowly. “Wow, Ampora. You sure know how to pick ‘em.”

You speak up before he can, layering your voice with as much sarcasm as you can. “My mother must be your dearest disciple.”

Vriska frowns, and sways, grasping a chair for support. “What’re you going on about? I don’t even know who your mother is, kid.”

“Roxy Lalonde. I merely thought, since she emulates you so accurately, that she would be one of your disciples.”

The goddess rolls her eyes. “Look kid you're cute and you might think you’re hot shit but I don't know or care a8out your lusus. Mother.”

How odd. She seems to be slipping in and out of her Tinge. “Then maybe I should introduce you.”

“Whatever.” Eyes half-lidded, the Thief picks up a jar and runs her finger along the inside, collecting any last morsel of honey, then sticks the digit in her mouth. “Go ‘way and let the adults talk.”

“No, Vriska,” speaks up Eridan. “You are goin’ to leave. Now.”

Vriska glares. “Why? What’re you gonna do about it, Ampora?”

You pause, and look at both of them. “It _is_ rather cold,” you note.

“I’ll turn on the heat in a minute, Rose,” Eridan mutters, then turns back to Vriska. He points towards the door. “Go home. You’re drunk.”

“Noooooooo, I’ll do whatever I want!” The Thief takes a step towards the Prince, then stumbles and falls.

Out of sheer instinct, you dart to catch her. She’s not as heavy as your mother.

The goddess slumps in your arms. “Pft,” she says. “Fuck.”

Eridan puts a steadying hand on your shoulder, and you nod at him in gratitude.

The Prince shakes his head. “I have half a mind to drop her out in the cold.”

You frown. “I’m almost catching frostbite and I’m inside. And I don’t think she’s in any condition to fly away.”

Eridan snorts. “So? Maybe dying of hypothermia will sober her up.”

Your eyes briefly widen before you smooth your expression. Yes, they’re both immortal. Still, that seems awfully cold-blooded. Mind the pun.

“Shuddup,” mutters the goddess in question from her spot slumped over your shoulder. She makes an uncoordinated attempt to stand up, but doesn’t quite manage it. “I’m fine.”

You carry-drag her to out of the kitchen and back to the lobby, where you both collapse onto a couch. Vriska is nearly limp, and it’s actually not quite as cold with her sprawled over you.

Eridan, watching you, lets out a long-suffering sigh. “I’ll go start up the furnaces. Rose, I don't think she's likely to do anything harmful in her state, but if she makes any odd movements, call for me.”

You nod, and he goes to attend to the boiler room.

As soon as he’s gone, Vriska tries to lift her head. “Prick,” she mutters. “He’s such a prick.”

You can’t help but smile slightly. “Yes. But I love him anyway.”

…Why did you just say that? “I mean, figuratively. It’s a human expression.”

You don’t think that will alert him. Lying to other people doesn’t grab his attention as much as self-deception does.

Vriska, however, doesn’t seem to care. “Whatever.”

Actually. From what you’ve seen, she doesn’t seem to care about much of anything. And she’s only the second god you’ve ever had… well, close contact with. Seeing as how she’s practically lying on top of you.

Maybe she’ll be more forthcoming, where Eridan was not? And besides, she’s probably feeling more loose-lipped than usual.

“So,” you say. “Where did you come from?”

With full drunkard eloquence, she replies, “What?”

“I mean, before you made our universe.”

The Thief snorts. “What'd you care?”

“I’m curious,” you reply. “It’s not something they teach in school.” You pause. “I know you were like us, once. Or, more like us. I’ve been able to piece together that much. You didn't spring forth from nothing, fully-formed.”

Vriska is silent, and you wonder if you crossed a line. “I apologize if this dredges up bad memories,” you offer. “I shouldn't have brought it up.”

After a few more moments, Vriska speaks up. “How 8adly do you wanna know, little Angel?”

She’s trying to lift her head, and you move her into a more comfortable, upright position. “There, is that better?”

She grunts what you think is an affirmative, so you go on.

“You should probably stop calling me an Angel. I am not one.”

“Huh? Then what are you? S’not like Eridumbass lets just anyone tromp around his hive.”

You decide to let that particular strand of irony slip by, as you doubt the goddess is sober enough to appreciate it.

“I suppose I might have been on his radar due to my mother. She’s one of Skaiacorp’s top administrators. Then I wrote an essay that, ah, called you landlords who charged too much rent. Supreme Fascists. And certain other things. It piqued his interest.”

Vriska snorts. “Course it would. Typical.”

She doesn't elaborate, so you continue. “Regardless, my job is to inform him when he is erring, essentially. He wanted someone who would not be afraid to talk back to him.”

The Thief is quiet for a long moment, and you wonder if she might have passed out. Then she speaks again. “You’re not afraid?”

“I was at first,” you admit. “When we first met. But now… I trust he won’t put me into unnecessary danger.”

The goddess gives a floppy smile, hitching up her lips to show her fangs. “Are you afraid of me?”

You pause, and turn to examine the goddess more closely. Her skin: like Eridan’s, is unblemished and a flat, matte gray. Her hair: stiff, black, and untidy. Her eyes: half closed with inebriation, are a clear blue with yellow scleras. They don’t appear bloodshot, but she’s definitely not really focusing on you, not with any of her eight pupils. Her small fangs protrude against her black lips. Her ears with their small points, nearly completely hidden in her hair. And the horns: orange fading to yellow in a smooth gradient, one bent downward at the end, the other splitting into two points.

“No,” you reply. “You are far more intriguing than you are frightening.”

Vriska frowns. “You should be scared. I could kill you like...” She lifts one hand and waves it vaguely in the air. “Like that.”

“Yes, I’m sure. And I’m sure that there could be a sudden gamma ray burst that fatally irradiates all life on earth. There are many ways to die that are out of my control, so why should I worry when there isn't anything I can do about it? It’s a waste of my time.”

The goddess makes a soft sound, a _hah_ , almost a laugh. “Smart. Soooooooo smart. Eridan likes smarts.”

Your stomach does an impressive loop de loop. Or, at least it feels like it does.

Better save that to think about later.

Vriska is a dead weight, pinning your arm to the couch. Your hand is starting to tingle with pins and needles. It’s an oddly familiar sensation. It reminds you of when you were little, sitting with your mother and pretending that she was cuddling with you. But she was always just passed out.

You don’t like that thought. The Thief of Light is not your mother. The similarity is bringing up a very large can of emotional annelids that you would rather not investigate at this moment, and that you’re certain Eridan will make you go over later in excruciating detail.

Well. So be it. Such do students of the gods suffer for their knowledge.

Aloud, you say: “You asked me earlier, how badly I wanted to know about your world.”

“Mhm,” grunts the goddess.

“If it is painful to broach, then I understand,” you continue. “But if you are willing to speak on it, then I would really like to know.”

Again, she makes a soft _hah_. “Not painful. S’dead and gone. Don’t miss it. Not gonna tell for free, though.”

“I see. It will be a trade, then? What will my side of the bargain be?”

The goddess tries to raise her head, with only the slightest success. “What’s offering? What’s th’ dirt on Eridan, ferinstance?”

She’s slurring, losing coherence. You hope she’ll remain conscious long enough to answer your questions.

“Dirt? What do you mean?”

“Fuck, I thought you were smart,” Vriska’s head flops back onto the couch. “What’s he up to? What’s his irons in th’ fire?”

Your brows crease. “I don’t really know much of his long-term goals, if that’s what you are asking. We mainly discuss history, social science, and politics.” You pause. “I suppose he’s been arguing with the Witch more than usual, lately. I’m not sure what about.”

“Mhm. Fascin8ing.”

You nudge her slightly in the side. “Your turn.”

She twitches her shoulders in an infinitesimal shrug. “You’re right. We used t’ be like you.”

You raise your eyebrows, waiting, but it seems the goddess has finished. “How informative. I am so very educated.” You nudge her again, harder. “Pay up, Thief of Light. We had a deal. And don’t just bare your teeth at me either. I’m not afraid of you.”

She grunts, and then says; “We didn’t used to have wings.” The goddess closes her eyes and leans her head back, and you are struck by how vulnerable she looks. “Thass all you’re getting outta me. Ask again when th’ room stops spinning.”

“As far as I can detect, it isn’t spinning,” you reply, and she groans.

“Ugh. Ask later. You know how t’ reach me.”

And before you can say anything more, she’s snoring.

That’s when Eridan re-enters the room. His gaze lands on the both of you, and he makes a noise of disgust.

You nod to him, and realize that the room does, in fact, feel warmer. You attempt to shrug off your outer layers of clothing, and manage to slip out from under the sleeping goddess. You turn around and behold the theologically unusual sight of the Thief of Light using your down coat and windbreaker as a pillow.

“Good, she didn’t try to hurt you,” he says. “I didn’t think she would. Still, interactin' with Vris in any situation tends to be a gamble.”

You nod. “No doubt her reputation is deserved. But all the same, I think she was far too inebriated to do more than complain at me.”

Eridan huffs, then says, “Well, now we have a decision to make. What do we do with our trespasser and drunkard?”

“I suppose we should let her sleep it off,” you reply. “That’s what I always did with my mother.”

Eridan regards you intently. “Are you goin’ to keep watch over her as she sleeps? Vris ate at _least_ five full jars of high-quality aged honey. Likely very rapidly. It will take at least fifteen to twenty hours for her to sober up. Maybe more, if I overlooked any jars. And I _won’t_ have her wakin’ up to have free, hung-over reign a’ my hive.”

You recognize that he is giving you a puzzle. “I suppose we could lock her in a room. She can sober up in there and won’t be able to meddle with your property.”

Eridan frowns. “You know how her abilities work, don’t you? If there is even a infinitesimally tiny probability a’ escape, she will escape. Even my high-security rooms are not built to hold my fellow gods.”

“Well, we can’t put her out in the cold,” you say, and then you see the look on Eridan’s face.

“False,” he says, softly.

“I’m not certain I-”

“Very well, Rose. I will clarify.” Eridan straightens, and gestures towards Vriska. “You have had plenty a’ opportunity to see how she and I differ from humans. You’ve flown with me. I’ve told you of things that occurred hundreds of millions of years ago, and in galaxies too distant to see with an unaided eye. For your edification, I’ve brought you crystals and books and preserved specimens from worlds no human has ever seen. And granted, you have not yet watched me die. But surely you believe me when I say that I, and the other living gods, are immortal? That inflicted wounds heal? That toxins are purged from our bodies? That we fall, then stand and breathe again?”

You keep your expression impassive, but this does not sit well with you. You trust Eridan. But Vriska is _asleep_. Surely what he is suggesting is murder, even if she will return?

You’re lying to yourself, and he hears you.

“It is no more than an inconvenience to her, I can promise you that. And perhaps it is cuttin’ her fun a little short, to sober her so suddenly.”

“Still,” you say, “Isn’t leaving her to die of exposure awfully cruel?”

“She’s _unconscious_ ,” says your mentor. He sighs. “But I suppose I could use this as an opportunity for a lesson. Very well, Rose. Put your coat back on, and follow me.”

He goes to Vriska on the couch, and picks her up, hefting her easily over his shoulder. Your stomach does a funny little flop again, but not for the same reason it did earlier.

You quickly throw on your coat, and follow him outside. After experiencing the steadily warming interior, the Antarctic wind is like being punched in the face. You blink and gasp for a good few seconds before regaining composure.

Eridan, wrapped in far fewer layers than you, lays Vriska down on the snow several yards from the entrance. Then he walks back to you.

You don’t want to leave her out there alone. You think she deserves more dignity, at least, then being left out like a pile of garbage to rot. And you are about to tell Eridan so.

But when he reaches you, the Prince turns, facing Vriska. “Stay behind me, Rose,” he says. And he draws his rifle.

Your breath catches. You’ve never been the squeamish type. You are fairly sure you could kill, were it in self-defense. But this is killing because… because it’s _expedient_. Convenient. God or not, that’s-

Bang _._

You don’t flinch.

You betray no surprise at how…. how _blue_ , it is.

“Stay here,” says Eridan, and you don’t move. How can you move, when the goddess who fell asleep on your shoulder has just been shot like a rabid dog?

The Prince puts a steadying hand on your shoulder. “Rose. Breathe. Just wait.”

It’s not even a full minute. Maybe not even thirty seconds.

“Oh, fuck you, Eridan!” snaps Vriska. She sits up, wraps her arms around her shoulders, and her wings flick open. “It’s freezing out here! Literally freezing!”

She is sitting in a snowbank stained blue by her own blood, but there is not a mark on her.

“Don’t break into my hive again, Vris,” says Eridan flatly, and his rifle vanishes. “I mean it.”

“Oh, whatever, Ampora!”

For a single moment, she makes eye contact with you. Her eyes are clear. Lucid. Are you imagining it, or is that a hint of a smirk?

There is only faintest whoosh of air, to mark her departure.

Eridan’s hand is still on your shoulder. “Rose,” he says.

“I should not have doubted,” you reply. “I apologize. She… seems none the worse for wear.”

“No,” replies Eridan. “It is good to doubt, good to question. You were wrong in this case, but it is better to have asked and been wrong, then to have accepted blindly. I did not take you on because a’ your _faith._ ”

You nod, slowly.

“Let’s go warm up.”

And you do.


	2. Taking the 88

The Prince makes sure to set aside a few hours for your lessons every day, but spends a fair amount of time away on godly business, especially while you sleep, or while he thinks you do. You guess that the Thief might need a few days to recover from her binge, death, and resurrection, so you manage to wait until the third night (or what you decide to call night, seeing as you are sealed under the ice in Antarctica’s summerlong sunlight) before you pray to her. Before going to bed, you set the alarm on your phone to ‘vibrate,’ and place it under your pillow. You can barely sleep with excitement, but you eventually drift off.

You awake at two in the morning to the angry drumming of your phone vibrating against the headboard, and turn on the lamp. Your room, one of Eridan’s barely-used guest suites, is cozy and tidy, outfitted with several antique decorations of variable taste. You take a moment to straighten your bedsheets and put on a more presentable outfit. One must make a good impression on guests, especially when they are gods.

You check to make sure there’s no light coming from Eridan’s study, close your door, and sit down at your desk chair. You wonder if the mood would perhaps be better set if you were in front of a full-length mirror, in the dark.

“Vriska Serket,” you say, and pause. The silence in the little room grows thick.

“Vriska Serket,” you say again. “I am taking you up on your offer.”

Still, silence. You reach for your snack stash of Angel Scout cookies, and take one out to munch. “Vriskaaaaaaaa,” you call, and then experience the uncanny realization that you'd held the ‘ah’ for exactly eight seconds.

There is a slight tremor, and the silver vanity mirror on the wall crashes to the floor.

You turn, and look at the clock. The glass face has cracked, with the thin lines forming an unlikely pattern: ♒?

“Vriska Serket, I believe that mirror was a priceless antique.” You twist a strand of hair between your fingers. “Besides, can’t you tell if he is present or not?”

You take a bite of the cookie, and it crumbles in your hand. The crumbs fall to the desk, making an unusual pattern on the surface: ♒?

You brush the crumbs away, and observe impassively as they fall into the same shape on the floor. “Are you truly unable to sense whether he is here? Or is the great and powerful Vriska Serket too terrified by the Stormcrow to even extend her powers to take a look?”

Nothing.

You can play this game. Passive aggression is your native tongue. This is no different from the mind games you used to play with your mother.

You take another cookie. “I shall take it as granted, then, that the Thief of Light shivers in her footwear at the thought of the other gods.”

That’s when she kicks down the door.

Dressed in full pirate gear, she cuts a fearsome figure, all black and blue canvas and leather, with golden sigils of Light cast as the buttons of her frock coat, emblazoned on her boots, and embroidered into her tricorne hat.

You extend the bag of cookies to her as a peace offering. “I think we should start over. That was not a very productive mode of conversation.”

The goddess sneers. “Do you even know what ‘clandestine’ means, girl?”

“I rather doubt it, if the definition includes knocking a door off its hinges,” you reply.

She rolls her eyes, but you go on. “Either you think that I am competent, or you do not. Am I the sort of person who would call you here for a quote-unquote ‘clandestine’ meeting without taking proper precautions, or am I the sort who is worth your time?”

The Thief frowns. “You tell me. Are you worth my time? I’m a busy goddess. Lots of irons in the fire. Why should I bother with you?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t any idea which irons these are or what fires they’re burning in. I would need to be aware of them if I am to help stoke the flames, so to speak.” You smile politely. “So what is it that I can do for my lady?”

You have another chair ready, but the goddess sits on your bed, reclining as if it belongs to her. “So many irons, Lalonde,” she says. “So many. But the one of interest here is this: What is Eridan machinating these days?”

You are prepared for this. You reach into your desk drawer and pull out a printed version of the essay you wrote a year and a half ago. “He took me on after reading this,” you say.

She takes the paper and skims it, eyes flicking down the pages with steadily raising brows. “You have guts, girl, I’ll give you that. What were you trying to accomplish by this?”

“It was the truth,” you say, and hold your head a little higher.

The goddess snorts, looking slightly disappointed. “That’s it? Pure, idiotic idealism?”

You shrug. “And perhaps a certain amount of antagonistic feeling toward my school.”

“Mhm.” She goes back to reading, this time going more slowly. “Which school?”

“Our Lady Without Mother or Father Academy.”

The Thief’s lips quirk upward as she reads. “They didn’t teach you to obey the rules, there? To say your prayers and toe the line and keep the zodiac turning?”

Your smile grows thinner. “Apparently, I am not a very good listener.”

She looks up. “But you listen to your Prince. Or don’t you?”

“He tells me he appreciates an independent mind. Something to the effect of, he wants someone to tell him when he’s fucking up.”

She puts your essay down and inclines her head, regarding you like she hadn’t really seen you before. “And what does he teach you?”

You pause before answering. “You have me at somewhat of a disadvantage, Lady Serket. Perhaps we should arrange for something more egalitarian. You ask me a question, then I ask you a question. And so forth.” You smile. “I think I can ask you two questions before we turn the tables again. After all, you left a query unanswered, from last time."

The goddess taps her chin with a long-nailed finger. “Very well. A game of questions and answers. No lying and no silence, but all else is permitted."

"Agreed, then," you smile, and you know you're a fool, but you smile. "Last time, you said that you used to be like us, and that you would elaborate when we next met.”

"Hm," The Thief glances down at your paper, lying on the bed's eiderdown comforter. "What are you looking for, Lalonde? What irons are in _your_ fire?”

You shrug. “I want to know what the gods were like. We don’t know anything about you as a people. Or what you were like before you became gods. And the Prince has been less than interested in filling the gaps.”

“How do you know we _became_ gods? Maybe we were hatched this way?”

“You said otherwise, last time we met.”

“Did I? I was very drunk.”

“ _In vino veritas_ _,”_ you reply.

“Hmph. Why does this interest you so much?”

“Because it's something that I don't know. The Prince has been teaching me many things: The way that the world used to be, the way that the world is now, the way that the world works, its physical mechanisms and its political undercurrents. But he has never mentioned what the world was like, before the gods. And that's something that I will not ever be able to learn unless I get it from one of you.” You straighten, and smile as pleasantly as you can. “Count that as another question that I have answered for you, by the way. So, that's three that you owe me in return now.”

The Thief of Light chuckles darkly. “You drive a hard bargain, Lalonde. Does it ever occur to you that there’s a reason we don’t talk about it?”

“Of course.”

“But you don’t care.”

You pause. “The Prince does not want to answer my questions, so I will not ask him. But you seemed, and seem, willing. It does not seem to distress you. But if I am reading you wrong, and if you find discussing this topic to be unduly upsetting, I will forgive you your debt of answers and apologize for wasting your time.”

The Thief smiles with sharp fangs. “What if I don’t care, where he does, not because of _our_ potential distress, but _yours_?”

“Why would I be distressed?” You gesture at the essay lying on the bedsheets. “All of you are already responsible for so much blood and horror simply by allowing it to happen. I cannot imagine that I will be forever unable to deal with the truth, even if it turns out that you were all child soldiers in some alien war.”

The Thief laughs without humor, then leans forward with a grin. “Is that the worst thing you can think of?”

You sigh and look down, lightly chewing your lower lip. “No. But if I had to guess, and be as… charitable as possible, I might suppose that you didn’t think of yourselves as monsters for letting evil happen. That you actually thought you were being good stewards of your creations, because you had been forced to live with something so horrific that all of this was as meaningless to you as a scraped knee is to me.” You look back up, to meet her eyes, and let out a long sigh. _Honesty_. “There is a part of me that hates you. Not you, personally. All of you. The gods. But I want to understand, first.”

The Thief looks at you sidelong. “Have you ever voiced that _particular_ line of thought to your mentor?”

“I am sure he is aware of it.”

She leans back against your pillows, interlacing her fingers behind her head. “Fine then. Fire away.”

You nod, and take a notepad from beneath the desk. “Question the first: Did you have gods of your own, before you were gods?”

She shakes her head. “No, there were only stupid fake religions, with fake gods. Not real ones.”

“How interesting. Question the second: Where do you think you came from, if you did not have gods, yourselves?”

The Thief shrugs noncommittally. “None of us really know. My bet is that they existed, but didn’t give enough of a shit to come visit or speak to us. Or they all died.”

You nod, saving the 'died' comment for future inquiry. “Question the third: to make an educated guess, you weren’t proposing that your life would be too much for me to handle simply as a theoretical. However, before delving into that, I want to ask why you are keeping it a secret? I don’t mean all of you, I mean you, the Thief of Light, specifically? Why does no record exist anywhere of the world before the gods?”

She narrows her eyes and frowns. “It's never been important. It's not like it's a place anyone can visit. It's gone. What would be the point for anyone to hear about a place that literally doesn't exist?”

You nod. “Alright. Your turn.”

The goddess steeples her fingers. “Do you think Eridan is training you for anything? You said you’re not one of his Angels. Where are you trying to go with all this?”

You tap your pen against your chin. “Well, if I was to hazard some speculation, I believe Eridan is upset with the status quo. Perhaps he doesn’t know what to do, or perhaps he doesn’t think that he would be able to fix it on his own. I don’t know enough to be sure. But I do think that, whatever the manifestation it will take, the Prince knows that something has to change.”

“What, in particular, needs to change?”

“I am not sure. Possibly that one or some or all of the gods are doing something that he disapproves of. Or perhaps he can’t pin it down, and desires a mortal’s perspective. Now, my turn.” You pick up your notepad again. “What was your favorite thing to do before you became a god? And please use a term I’m familiar with. It isn’t fair saying ‘fitzboggling’ without explaining what that means.”

The goddess closes her eyes for a moment, as if thinking. Her lips twitch, very slightly.

“Games. I liked to play games.”

You wait for elaboration, but the Thief is silent. “Hm. Nicely played, Lady Serket. That is a familiar term. Very well, what is your next question for me?”

She leans forward. “Do you think that you would be able to find out what it is about the status quo that Eridan seems set against?”

You nod, and answer truthfully. “I believe I could. Now for my question. I would like for you to tell me more about the games you liked to play, if you are willing to divulge them.”

The Thief shrugs. “I think you’ll have to earn that one, Rose Lalonde.”

You blink. You can’t say you weren’t at least partially expecting that. “I see. And the implicit understanding is that I will get the answer when I find out what the Prince wants changed?”

She stands up and stretches, smiling at you. “Yes. It is a deal.”

You smile back. “It has been a pleasure, Lady Serket. Would you like a cookie, before you go?”

The goddess grimaces. “Ugh, Angel Scout cookies are terrible. Ta-ta, Rose Lalonde. You know how to reach me.” She waves farewell, then strides out.

As she leaves, you call after her. “I will be sending you a bill for the door.”


	3. Electra and Oedipus Do the Limbo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait.

It’s mid-Scorpio in Istanbul, on a cool overcast afternoon that seems to be considering precipitation but hasn’t decided yet. You are sitting in your hotel room, a five-star accommodation that overlooks the Sea of Marmara. The harbor with its yachts and sailboats is just outside the hotel, and large container ships float beyond like weightless fortresses.

You are here with Eridan on some sort of undisclosed business of his, and he doesn’t require your presence at this moment. Deducing from past field trips, it is likely that he is politicking.

You move to the hotel’s minibar, and rifle through it for its most expensive items. You remove them, and place them on the coffee table, then arrange two plush armchairs into a welcoming layout. And, remembering the fiasco from last time, you unlock the door.

“Vriska Serket?” you say aloud, and your lips curl. “I can assure you that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is nowhere about.”

You sit down in the armchair, sinking several inches into the cushion. Nothing happens, and you sigh. Not _this_ again.

“Vriska Serket, will you make me play this game every time we-”

Movement, something blue, out of the corner of your eye. You turn.

She’s outside your window, hovering in midair, arms crossed and wearing a bored expression.

Suppressing a roll of your eyes, you smile and move to unlatch the window. Are all the gods this overly dramatic? “How do you do, Lady Luck? What brings you to my window? Looking for your shadow?”

The Thief of Light swings into the room as gracefully as might be possible while coming in through a window, folding her wings in as she does. She is not wearing the pirate gear from last time, nor the orange godhood, but rather a long black coat and blue jeans. She looks at you for a moment, eyes scrutinizing, then turns to look around the room.

“Nice block. Definitely an improvement over last time.”

You close the window behind her, then come to the front and indicate the minibar items. “Chocolate liqueur?”

She snorts softly, then says; “Don’t mind if I do.”

You hand her the bottle, and she speaks again as you seat yourself again in the armchair.

“Do you like that old story?”

You smile politely. “The original much more than any of the adaptations. Though I suppose the version with Robin Williams had merit as well.”

“Hm.” The goddess frowns at the bottle in her hand, then flashes her teeth at you in a wide grin. “Then surely you know that _I’m_ not Pupa Pan. Or whatever they call him on this planet.”

“Forgive me for trying to force a metaphor. There wasn’t anything I could think of on the spot that related to Captain Hook.” You pause. “Would you like to have a seat? On the chair, or the bed, or the table, or the floor? Anywhere?”

Vriska does not sit, but rather remains standing, leaning slightly against the intricately patterned wall. She uncorks the bottle and sips the chocolate liqueur, eyeing you. At length, she speaks: “Do you have what I want?”

“Yes,” you say, and smile more genuinely than before. You have prepared for this, as promised. You spoke with Eridan after your previous meeting with the Thief, and told him of Vriska’s odd little information exchange. Interestingly, he showed very little irritation or surprise. Of course, it had occurred to you that Eridan may be displeased if he learned that you were mining another god for information that he was unwilling to divulge, edifying as it was. You knew better than to lie to his face, but you managed to deflect a detailed inquiry with a simple “just trust me.”

You’re still amazed that worked.

Regardless, he gave you information you could share. True enough to satisfy, yet vague enough to conceal.

“It seems that the Prince is grooming me for some kind of leadership position. There is some sort of trouble ahead, or adversity, for which my honesty, pragmatism, and intelligence will be most helpful. I have not been able to figure out much else.”

The goddess purses her lips. “For a guy who prides himself on truth, he sure isn’t telling you much, is he?”

“I don’t recall him ever being described as the god of full and easy disclosures.”

Lady Luck chuckles at that. “No, he’s not.”

You cross one leg on top of your knee. “My turn. As before, I would like you to elaborate on the games you played when you were young. Unless you would prefer not to talk about them?”

Vriska shrugs. “No chitin off my back. They were role-playing games. We would take on personas. Be who we wanted to be.” The goddess finally sat in the offered chair, a contemplative look on her face. “We were kids, just playing around. But it was also practice, of a sort.”

“Practice? For what?”

She frowns. “For adulthood, of course. Playing at what adults did, or at least at what we thought they did. Of course, this was long before I ever thought I’d be a god.”

You smirk at the thought. “I confess, I find it hard to imagine what role-playing games would be like if we treated them as an opportunity to pretend at being adults, rather than sword-wielding magical adventurers in search of gold. Was there a preponderance of Level 8 Bankers? Or did adulthood involve something rather more exciting than that?”

The goddess is smiling. “It was somewhat dramatized. Now it’s my turn.” You nod, and she continues, “Do you want to be this leader, in whatever this future is that Eridan seems to be planning for you?”

You think for a moment. “I do not think I currently have enough information to make a decision. But at present, I do not think that I will be locked into that path by continuing as I am. I will lose nothing by staying here and learning from the Prince until such a time that I must make a decision. But… I may be willing to entertain alternative possibilities, if I judge them superior.” You straighten. “What were your favorite books, before you became a goddess? Or music, or other art form?”

She shrugs. “Easy. My Ancestor’s diary. I had the whole thing memorized, down to the places where the handwriting smeared.”

“Oh? I’d be honored to hear an excerpt, at some point. Or read one.”

“Hm,” the Thief frowns. “Maybe. Does Eridan speak often with the other gods?”

“Some of them,” you reply. “The Mage and the Seer, he talks with reasonably frequently. The Maid and the Witch, occasionally.”

“Do you have any idea what they’re in cahoots about?”

You sigh dramatically. “You know I’m keeping a tally of these questions, right?”

Vriska tosses her hair and rolls her eyes. “Fine. Go.”

“You say you didn’t know you would become a goddess. But what dreams _did_ you have as a youth, in terms of your future?”

“I wanted to be a Gamblignant.” At your confused expression, she clarifies. “An empire-sanctioned pirate. I thought it was fated, actually, considering my Ancestor was one of the most infamous ones, and I was eager to measure up.”

You take mental note of the word _empire_. “So when you role-played, to prepare for adulthood, you were in effect role-playing as a buccaneer?”

She grins, placing a long nail to her lip. “Hmm. I believe the next question is mine.”

You pause, then nod sheepishly. “Yes, I’m afraid I got ahead of myself, Lady Serket. My apologies. Your question was about the cahoots?”

“Right.”

“The Prince and the Mage appear to be involved in some projects relating to SkaiaCorp. I’m not quite sure what. With the Seer, it’s less clear, though I think he may be consulting her for advice. As for the Witch and the Maid, he generally sees them both at once, and I’m not certain where they go. Though, from my limited observations of their interactions, I believe their relationship may be characterized as ‘Ashen’.”

“What? He’s quadranted with Feferi _again_? Damn, I’ve been out of the loop.”

You smile politely. “Far be it from me to know every detail of divine gossip.”

“Stick around long enough and you’ll get a _real_ education,” she says, her grin all fangs. “Your question, Lalonde.”

You think for a moment. “Well, so far as I have gathered, you were quite enthralled with your Ancestor as a youth. Did that hero-worship persist into adulthood?”

Vriska pauses, and for a moment looks confused. Her lips part, then seal. She seems almost pensive. Then, “I never got to be an adult, really. I went from kid to god. Nothing in between.”

You blink, at that. So, the Thief was only a child, thrust into godhood, with no room in between to mature or make a life for herself? It’s fitting, considering her personality. But…

“Were all the gods like that?” you ask.

She wags a finger at you. “My turn.” She leans in, and now her grin is almost a _leer_. “Is Eridan in any other quadrants right now?”

You manage to keep your face straight. “I do not believe so. But I can put in a good word for you, if you like.”

The goddess rolls her eyes. “Get with the program, Lalonde! That’s not what I asked. I’m trying to get _all_ the dirt on Eridan. ALL of it.”

“And I’m sure that is the only reason why you are asking.” You just can’t help it. Your ear for passive-aggressive deadpan has only sharpened while living with a god as sensitive to truth and lies as Eridan, and the Thief is such a rich target.

“Pitch with Eridan’s gotten old, kid. And you won’t catch me red with _him_ again. Eugh.”

 _All the better to not have competition_. The thought pops unbidden into your head as your heartbeat quickens, and you feel the heat rising in your cheeks. Then you finish processing what you just heard, and you stutter embarrassingly on your reply. “A-Again?”

Vriska gestures flippantly. “Yeah. We dated for a while, near the beginning. He’d finally gotten over himself, actually was likable for a change, and not so stuffy as he is now. I think he actually _apologized_ to me; nobody could believe it. It was so utterly pitiable. Last time I show that guy a soft spot though. He was waaaaaaaay too clingy. Like a remora.” She sticks her tongue out in disgust.

“Oh,” you say, looking off to the side. “He’s never struck me as… clingy.”

The Thief snorts. “That’s because these days he values objects more than people. Mortal or otherwise.”

You frown. “No, it’s- he’s not like that at all. I can’t imagine you really know him all that well, if you think that about him.”

“Kid, I’ve known him since before the sun started shining.” At the look on your face, she continues. “What, did you think he cared? Like he was a stand-in for your lusus-father?”

“Don’t be preposterous!” you snap. “Our relationship is that of a mentor and a student. It’s completely p-professional.” Damn, you aren’t keeping your composure near calm enough.

“I don’t have to be a living lie detector to call bullshit on that one, Lalonde.” The Thief leans forward, eyes glittering. “So, did I get it? He’s a father figure to you? Nothing to be ashamed of, he keeps you so close...”

“No, he’s n-not…” Lie. Lie _._ “Yes, fine, that's right, he’s like the father I never had.”

 _He keeps you so close_ , she said. You are blushing pink as a peach.

“No way.” The Thief looks delighted. “You’re flushed for him. Holy shit.”

For a precious few seconds, you are able to distract yourself by wondering which god’s shit could be considered holy.

“I’m right. I’m definitely right. The look on your face, HA!”

So much for distraction. You abandon the attempt at deception, press your face against your notebook, and take a deep breath. You let it out and, with great effort, lift your head and look directly into the Thief’s cerulean eyes. “Yes, Lady Luck. You are quite astute. I’m afraid that I am afflicted with the greatest misfortune to be infatuated with my mentor.”

The Thief giggles. “Oh, you poor kid. Poor, poor kid. You’re not even _of age_ , are you? When do humans mature fully? Twenty, twenty-five? Ha ha ha!”

“I fail to see how any of this is relevant!” you snap.

“Oh, Lalonde, everything is relevant.” The Thief smiles condescendingly. “You need some advice? Stay away from Eridan’s quadrants. No good comes out of his romances, **eeeeeeeever**.”

You pull your knees up and wrap your arms around them, forming a body language shield against the goddess and her blue words. “It’s my turn to ask, Vriska.”

“You know, on the other frond, you could go tell him your feelings! That would be _so_ hilarious.”

You pick up your pad of paper and, face still crimson, attempt to re-inject some sense of order into the interview. “You made reference to an ‘empire.’ Can you describe this empire in a bit more detail?

“You want to play it off? Alright, sure, but we’re not done there, Lalonde.” The Thief frowns. “Damn, it was so long ago. Our empire was led by an empress, and it stretched over dozens, maybe hundreds of star systems in our galaxy. Subjugated or wiped out everything it met. And there was the caste system. Blood color, you know.”

Blue on the snow. “Blood color?”

“It’s not relevant anymore. No empress, no other Trolls to compare to. It would be stupid to keep that system up when we’re all _gods_!”

Wait. “Sorry, ‘Trolls?’” You remember old legends and folktales, children's stories and the like, about the world of fairies and trolls, supposedly made by the gods before they made humans. Such apocrypha had never been approved by the Zodiac Church, but...

The Thief smiles and reclines. “How long have you been flushed for Eridan?”

You would really rather not talk about this. But the Thief is starting to get into some really juicy information now, so… “It started about six months after he took me as an apprentice.” Your voice is clipped, reluctant. “We were stargazing. I discovered he liked wizards. I found the notion… agreeable.”

She snorts. “Agreeable. Right. Any of us could have told you he likes wizards.”

Your lips grow thin with irritation. “Okay, enough of that. What did you mean by “Troll?”

“That’s us. We’re Trolls. Or, we were, before we were gods. Would you kiss Eridan, if you had the opportunity and knew no adverse consequences would result?”

“Lady Serket, I find this personal line of questioning highly inappropriate.”

She shrugs “Take it or leave it, kid.”

“….Fine. If I thought he wanted to kiss me as well… yes. I would.”

“You really shouldn’t date Eridan,” the Thief interjects. “You should find a mortal. A human, or whatever else is romantically compatible.”

You cross your arms. “I’m not asking you for relationship advice. I’m asking you what your thoughts were, as a youth, about the Troll Empire you lived within?”

The goddess’ brows furrow, and she looks away. “It was the Alternian Empire, not the Troll Empire. And I was going to excel within it. I had everything figured out, I would overcome everything in my way and glide into success. I was already a blueblood, so it’s not as though it was out of my reach. I wasn’t a diehard imperial loyalist, but I was certain that I could succeed on my own merit without needing to break the system.”

“Hm. So, you had a privileged background, due solely to birth, and believed that your success was due to merit?”

She gives a hard smile. “I earned my luck, kid. Not everything was gold spoons and sweet-meat, you know. I had plenty of shit to deal with. So, are you planning on holding your flushed feelings inside indefinitely? Or are you planning to tell him at some point?

You groan. You should have been better prepared for this. “I- I am not certain. At this point I am simply suffering from a childish infatuation. I doubt that he would reciprocate, or even that reciprocation is deserved. If… in the future, when I am older, if I am still ‘flushed’ for him then… yes. Maybe. But not now.”

“Older? Kid, you’d be like a housefly to him even if you lived a century!” The Thief cackles, and your cheeks burn.

_Well, if that’s where this is going, then two can play that game._

“You shouldn’t let these things _fester_ inside,” the Thief continues. “No time like the present! Why not let it out? Take a chance!”

You compose yourself. “Perhaps I will. But in any event, it is my turn to ask a question.”

“Do you want help with it? It’s more Nepeta’s gig than mine, but I think I could lend a frond...”

You take a deep breath. “As I said, Lady Luck, it is my turn.” Before she has a chance to interrupt, you continue. “Who was _your_ first object of romantic attraction?”

The Thief leans back in the chair, sips her liquor, and gazes at you a moment before answering. “When I was very young, I was obsessed with Tavros. You know him as the Page.”

You nod, and lean in. You knew his name, and had heard parables about him and the Thief. Most were conflicting. The thought that you could actually get a straight answer now was quite intriguing.

You wait for her to continue, and your interest must show on your face, because she purses her lips and says; “You ever feel caliginous, Lalonde? No, no I didn’t think so.”

“Describe it?”

She smiles. “Admit to Eridan how you feel, and maybe I’ll tell you more about Tavros when I come back tomorrow. Same time.”

She leaves you with your notebook in your lap. You don’t mention the fact that this time, you weren't the one to invite her back.


	4. A Game for Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, dear readers. Grad school is kicking my butt.

You don't tell Eridan. You can't - no, you don't want to, are too afraid that doing so will put your apprenticeship in jeopardy. It's also just... just plain embarrassing. You don't think this counts as self-deception, don't think the truth of the matter will stream into Eridan's head with all the subtlety of a gong. But the truth, damnably, is that you aren't completely sure.

And so, when the Thief reappears, you have nothing for her. "What a pity," she says, making an exaggerated show of disappointment. "I guess you'll just have to miss out on hearing about my sordid past with Tavros."

But she doesn't leave. The game carries on.

This is acceptable to you.

\--------

There's a loophole you've found in your agreement with the goddess, a tacit one that she's never called you out on. You don't phrase your query as a question, and she won't cut you off if you ask two.

She returns, again and again, and you query back and forth. On her end, Vriska enquires constantly about Eridan's long-term plans, of which you of course know very little, and then your plans, about which you know very little more, then about his personal life, then your personal life, all in between jabs and provocations. It's sadly predictable.

Her answers to your questions are infuriating; she responds accurately, but without real substance. Still, you are learning more about their old world, Alternia, and the interactions between the gods when they were young. Occasionally, you get hints, left in tantalizing drops, of what happened during their apotheosis. It's a very different kind of education than what Eridan gives you, and you're earning it in an entirely different way. Vriska isn't a mentor dropping nuggets of wisdom from her ivory pedestal. Vriska is a nut to be cracked.

It's hard to respect the Thief, the same way you respect your mentor. Her behavior is juvenile and erratic, and you can't resist psychoanalyzing her. You have always enjoyed books on psychology, and now that you have access to Eridan’s library your psychiatric acumen is at its finest.

She strikes you as restless. Unsettled, uprooted, unstable. Unhappy. She has all the power a divinity could ask for, and no use for it. You could almost feel sorry for her, if you could get past how utterly unsuited she is for goddess-hood.

You could pity her, almost. The past her, at least, the one that tried to psychically force others to like her, the one with so little ability to empathize with others that she literally blinded the only person who had ever befriended her. Her casual cruelty and elitism were clearly meant to cover up her terror of being of being seen as weak or useless.

Though, granted, some of it is so alien that you can't relate at all. Cradled as a child between the fangs of a spider, learning to tiptoe over webbing, then having to kill anyone weaker than herself to keep her monstrous guardian alive... not to mention the omnipresent threat of culling and the complete lack of adult supervision. You wonder what you would have done, in such circumstances.

"I had to give it all up," she admits, reclining on a couch in a way that is hilariously (and unintentionally, you think) reminiscent of old cartoons of psychiatry patients. "When I became a goddess. My lusus, my home, even my psionics."

"That sounds... difficult." By now, you've filled up dozens of pages with notes on the goddess' psyche. More pages on her mind, actually, than than on her origins.

"Well, I had plenty of incentive."

"Oh?" You wait for her to continue, but she doesn't offer anything more, so you probe indirectly. "I can't say I completely understand why you would miss that life. I realize that it may be culturally insensitive to say so, but frankly, being raised by your lusus sounds horrid. I'm amazed you didn't run away at the first opportunity." Like I did.

"Ha. Well, that is easy to say for you. But a young troll without a lusus, an orphan, made easy prey. Even I knew deep down that there were bigger and badder creatures out there than me, though of course it was my ambition to outlive them. And hey, I did! Not that it matters, now."

"Mmhm." You take notes automatically, hardly thinking about it.

"What about you, Lalonde?"

You look up from your notebook to find her meeting your gaze. "Sorry?"

"Didn't you leave anything behind for, ah, this? I know what humans tend to like. All this ice, snow, and cold hard truth can't be too comfortable for you."

You thin your lips. "There are more important things than comfort." Vriska is still looking at you, piercingly, and you fight back the desire to squirm. Eventually, you break eye contact. "I wasn't happy with my prospects at home. Eridan made a better offer."

"And your family? Your mother?"

Your gaze snaps back up. "What?"

The goddess grins. "You kept yammering about her, when we first met. Don't you miss her, here?"

"It... your behavior was reminiscent." You can't hold back a grimace. "Of some of her worse days."

Vriska sits up, resting her chin in one hand. "Is that why you keep asking me back?"

You study your notes. "No. I have already explained my motives to you. And-" you shake your head. "-it's my turn to ask."

You haven't had to interrupt a line of questioning like that in a while now. But this subject is making you uncomfortable, and-

-and you can practically hear Eridan chiding you already. Tell the truth. For yourself, if not for anyone else.

The Thief is waiting. "... It might have been a subconscious factor. I know you're not my mother, but I might be... offloading some of my inner existential frustrations onto you, in her stead. It is unwarranted, I know, but our... meetings, feel more controlled than interactions with her ever did." You look back up at Vriska. You can't quite place her expression. Her eyes have softened, but her lips are set in a thin, pensive line. Is it just you, or does she look... a bit younger?

Most likely, it's not just you. You've seen Eridan pull similar tricks.

You stare at each other, into her shocking blue irises. The silence goes on, stretching past uncomfortable and entering into.. something else. Your next question is on the tip of your tongue, but you don't say anything. Your heart is pounding. You can't seem to look away.

\--------------

You don't know what to think about her.

"My lusus made me do things to survive that others didn't have to. I hated it, but I told myself I liked it. Eventually, I did enjoy it. Having that power."

You don't like her. You don't like her. 

"My mother always tried to make it up to me with objects. Grand gestures, extravagant even. I thought it was a way to rub her absences in my face, using generosity as a social weapon to make me forgive her." 

She's reprehensible. She's cruel, conniving. Nasty, even. You don't like her.

"Of course, it's easy to look back now, and see how other people turned into objects for me. But, that's how it is for a god too, so I suppose it all just served to prepare me for godhood."

You understand her.

"Even now, admitting that my mother's motivations might be genuine, that it might be... her way of expressing love... it hurts."

Better than you'd like.

"In the grand scheme of things, why does any of it matter, cosmically?" you wonder, studying the grain of the leather on your chair. "Eridan tells me the universe is so vast even gods still discover something new on occasion. The Earth alone is larger than the human mind can easily grasp, and the Earth would fit a million times in the cores of the largest stars. Time stretches forward and back through ages mortal minds cannot comprehend, from the searing light of the Vast Croak to the final entropic void. Utter nothingness on both sides. We're sandwiched between one oblivion and another." You let out a long sigh. "And even in that sandwich, we're one molecule on a granule of salt."

The goddess sounds impassive. She doesn't seem interested in the mention of Eridan. She hardly asks about him at all anymore. "So why do you keep working so hard? Wouldn't it be easier to give up? A life of pleasure until you die works fine for most mortals I've met."

You shake your head, and look up to meet the goddess' eyes. "I cannot give in to hedonism. I don't want that. Eridan has told me about civilizations who choose to just... plug their brains in and overload their pleasure centers until they waste away in bliss. There are more important things than that. Why else do we exist?"

She smiles, less sharply than usual. "You expect me to tell you? Rose, we didn't make you with a grand moral purpose. We made you because we found a full universe more entertaining than a lifeless one. We were children. What else do you want from me?"

And you know, now, what kind of child she was. Morally deficient, fiercely competitive, cunning, jealous, abused, terrified.

You remember coming home to a 20-foot wizard statue, a work of art commissioned and installed just for you, on your 10th birthday. "Two feet... for effffery year!" your mother had slurred, then vomited on the floor.

"I don't want anything," you say, and pray that it's the truth.

\-------

It's sometime after that conversation that you find out the Real Truth about who you are. What you are. And why you're here at all.

\------

"Did you know?" You, breathless, wide-eyes, hands shaking. Your habitual self-control, carefully curated by necessity, has been thrown out the proverbial window.

"Nope. Never knew." She shakes her head. The Thief is calm, but looks slightly impressed. "Pretty good at keeping secrets under wraps, isn't he? Truth god, ha!"

"That's... yes, truth god. Gods. Shit."

She rests a claw on her lower lip. "I'd have thought you'd be excited. You finally have a chance to 'right' our 'wrongs.'" You can almost see the air quotes. "So, he told you everything?"

You sit down, pull up your knees, and rest your head against them. "Yes," you say, voice a bit muffled.

"Well...." She puts a hand on her hip and looks away. "I suppose I should offer condolences. Can't say I found out in the same way, but yeah, that must be rough."

"Yes." You close your eyes. "I'm not ready."

"Rose."

"I'm not. It's the truth. How could I be? There's still so much to know. And I'm not ready, I can't be a god, I can't be like you, I don't want this, I-"

"Rose."

You feel a hand on your arm. Cool, smooth, surprisingly light. You freeze, and the hand moves, sliding along the crest of your shoulder, your collar, your neck, your face. There, it stops. It's smooth. Not callused. It doesn't feel like the hand of a killer.

You note all this in a distant part of your brain. The nearer part is too shocked, she is so close, she's never laid so much as a finger on you, not since that first day you met.

Her hand cups your cheek.

"Rose," she says. "Shhhhhh."

\------

The moment she leaves, you message Dave.

TG: okay but why the fuck are you telling me  
TG: you think i'm some kind of god romance casanova  
TG: i mean clearly i have all the goddess babes over here  
TG: worshipping at my fucking feet  
TG: i'd better get used to the worshipping bit  
TG: being all god in training that i fucking am  
TG: god of players and babes  
TG: that's gonna be my title  
TG: 'player of babes'  
TT: Far be it from me to assume,  
TT: But I believe that your divine connections are more involved with the 'mortal/god romance' habit than mine are.  
TT: Seeing as my mentor has admitted to only rarely dabbling with mortal relationships, and never in flushed.  
TG: right yeah that's a little hard to believe  
TG: i mean he's had millions of years to fool around with this shit  
TG: and you're saying he decided to be all 'nah that's gross' with everyone but other gods?  
TG: sounds like he's just too squeamish to get up close and personal with alien junk  
TG: but he is the god of truth so whatever  
TT: Is this a way for you to admit that you have no knowledge of romantic quadrants whatsoever?  
TT: Despite your boon companion and patron being the very literal goddess of such things?  
TG: yo i didn't say that  
TG: i know everything  
TG: all the quadrants  
TG: all of them  
TG: so lay it on me  
TG: what happened? she give you the ol' divine makeout session? things get hot and steamy in the prince's broom closet?  
TG: does he have a broom closet?  
TG: i assume he does but i dunno how much of a neat freak he is.  
TG: Nep's pretty chill about it.  
TT: I assure you there was no broom closet involved. Or makeouts.  
TG: did she bite you in the hot tub?  
TG: pap you up against the wall?  
TG: shit it's like clue in here  
TG: is it mrs peacock in the lounge with the auspiticeship  
TG: or mr green in the conservatory with the kissmessitude?  
TG: i should patent this shit  
TT: Hypothetical quadrant-related board games aside,  
TT: It was indeed what is known as a 'pap.' And in my room, on the couch, if that matters.  
TG: was it just a casual pap kind of thing? or was she trying to start something serious? how did she look while she was doing it?  
TT: She looked, I suppose, like she was concentrating very intently. On me.  
TT: Is that indicative of anything?  
TG: fuck, i don't know  
TG: talk to her  
TG: ask her what it was all about  
TG: she probably won't tell you and you might look like an idiot but it's worth a shot  
TT: And, what if her response is in the affirmative, that it was indeed meant to be a romantic solicitation?  
TG: fuck if i know  
TG: i'm not in a relationship with a goddess  
TT: Are you quite sure? Some of the things you've said... you and the Rogue seem quite close.  
TT: ...Dave? Are you still there?  
TG: we're not morails rose  
TG: it's platonic  
TT: Protesteth thou too much, methinks?  
TG: right  
TG: you'd say that to any amount of protestething  
TT: Why Mr. Strider, I'm wounded.  
TT: In any event, thank you for the advice, limited as it may be.  
TT: I admit I find it somewhat galling that this form of relationship does not come naturally to me, and so I must fish for hints like this. But I will do my best.  
TG: yeah, well, good luck  
TG: hopefully she doesn't kill you when you break up  
TT: Well, I would hope she would realize that I'm... relatively important to the other gods, now, and refrain. Or else not break up at all, I suppose. Or not get together in the first place.  
TT: And this is one hope that I will not be telling my mentor of.  
TG: good move  
TG: otherwise he'll prince himself all over it  
TT: A pleasure as always, Dave.  
TG: seeya

\-----

Still, you know with a certainty that few others can brag of that Eridan does not shy away from all mortal relationships.

There was a time, last year, when you and Eridan received a visitor at the manor, the first you could remember ever having. He was a large man wearing the sigil of Hope, showing his rank as an Angel, and not just any, but an Archangel of the Innermost Order of Truth. He didn't really look the part. You'd always imagined Angels as being somewhat scholarly, but this man looked like he belonged at a tailgate party, celebrating a sporting event somewhere in Middle America.

"Prince," he said, and knelt.

Eridan took the Archangel's hand and brought him to his feet, and you noticed his touch lingering. But no, that couldn't be right. Eridan had told you he'd never been romantically involved with a human, hadn't he? You must have been mistaken.

Eridan's Antarctic manor was his hive, a place of solitude for him alone. And for you. He'd met with other people plenty, gods and mortals alike, but never in his home. You asked him about it, and he responded unsatisfactorily.

"I like my privacy, but the highest ranking Angels know where I live."

The change in routine was jarring, seeing this other person in the halls, the library, the dining room, the study, often speaking with Eridan in a hushed voice. He stayed for days.

This was all wrong. If the Archangel was here to discuss the Order's business, why was it taking so long? And why here? Other people didn't belong here. You knew, of course, that it was Eridan's decision who should walk his halls. But having this stranger present in your 'home away from home' was decidedly galling. 

Then, four days after the Angel's arrival, you sought out Eridan for the translation of an ancient extraterrestrial text, and ended up walking in on him and the Angel in the middle of a... pile.

You didn't even know enough at the time to be embarrassed, only exceedingly perplexed by the sight of your godly mentor reclining amongst opulent pillows, head on the Angel's lap, eyes closed and making a slow, cricket-like chirp-rasp. The human was brushing the Prince's hair and spoke in a quiet, low tone. At your entrance, the Angel had paused mid-brush, and mid-sentence, mouth open.

It was shockingly ill-considered, you think in hindsight, for them to be doing that in a public space, rather than somewhere in Eridan's quarters. Maybe Eridan hadn't wanted to open those rooms even to his moirail, or maybe he'd forgotten you were there.

You'd gotten 'the talk' after that. Not quite the one your school had given you, but interesting nonetheless.

Eridan had assured you that his moirallegiance with the Angel was a 'casual fling' and wouldn't be continuing, so you shouldn't expect to see the Angel around too much. And that was it, in terms of quadrants. He clearly didn't think it important for your education. Eridan has always been willing to answer your questions, but has offered surprisingly little information otherwise. You'd almost think he didn't enjoy romance at all, when he very clearly does.

Due to this and other factors, you determine that you are not going to ask him for advice about Vriska.


	5. Tentacle Therapist Slumber Rumpus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally.

The spring draws to a close, and you go home without seeing Vriska again.

Your mother is as she always has been, seesawing between near-manic workaholism and decrepit insobriety. She buys you a new, top-of-the-line laptop. You leave her bitterly to her self-destruction.

You spend most of the boreal summer reading supernatural romances, riding Maplehoof through the woods, and talking with your online friends about everything except your shared fate. You are introduced to John. You knit yourself a new set of mittens for Antarctica, as your old ones have gotten a little small.

\-------

You avoid speaking Vriska's name. You know she'll come on her own if she wants to, but you're not anxious to accelerate the process. As much as you'd like to have closure on what, exactly, her intentions are, you are also a little apprehensive. You are not sure if she was being serious or not, and if she was, you are not sure if you reciprocate, or even if you can reciprocate. How can you be sure? What is 'pale' supposed to feel like to a human? Perhaps you should have asked that Archangel, while you had the chance.

It's a bit of a shock when she appears on your doorstep in the middle of a rainstorm, but you also can't say you haven't been expecting her. Thank gods (well, thank her, you suppose) that your mother is working late.

"So, gonna let me in?" She smiles at you, hair and clothing sopping wet, and it's not even a predatory grin. She's significantly shorter and slighter than usual.

You step back, and she steps in, boots squelching. Her outfit is not one of the the form-fitting black getups that you've seen her in before, but rather baggy and grayish, almost like sweatpants. No sign of her sigil. She glances around the foyer, at the chandelier and the plush carpets and the huge wizard statue. Judging solely by appearances, she doesn't look a day over fifteen. "Fancy digs. Can't say the decor is quite my taste."

"Digs?" You finally find your voice as you shut the door. 

"Isn't that the thing mortals say now? 'Digs?' Like it's, I don't know, a fucking burrow?" She's dripping on the marble floors.

"Surely," you swallow. "Surely you could have carried an umbrella? Or a raincoat? Or do you enjoy getting drenched? We get thunderstorms often here, you know."

She grins and brushes a sodden lock of hair behind an ear. "Oh, silly me, I must have... forgotten to bring one."

"Forgot to bring one in the infinitely large, yet portable, pocket dimension to which you alone have access."

"Right. Oops!"

You cross your arms and let the silence drag on a moment. The goddess continues to drip. 

"Why are you here?" Your voice is softer than it had been a moment ago. "This is my time off. I don't have any more information on Eridan. "

Her black lips purse. "I didn't want any."

In truth, you hadn't really thought she did. You let out a long sigh. "You should dry off before the floor becomes dangerously slippery. Come on, we have towels in the bathroom."

She grins. "Sounds... comfortable."

You're not sure what to make of the emphasis she put on 'comfortable'. You're not sure what to make of any of this. She's not here to make you spy on Eridan. She's not here to exchange questions. What does she want from you?

Once at the hall bathroom, she touches the towels, frowning. "Don't you have any more than this?"

You blink, surprised. "Ah, yes, in the closet. This isn't enough?"

"I'll need more than this." At your expression, which could be metaphorically compared to a wild game animal in headlights, she adds, "I'm soaked."

You go to the closet, leaving the goddess to her own devices, and grab as many towels as you can hold, mounding them in your arms. You don't think she'll destroy your house while you're not looking, but you're a little on edge.

"Okay," you sigh in exasperation, returning to the bathroom. "Here's all the towels we-"

"Perfect!" Vriska grabs the towels from your hands, and drops them unceremoniously on the floor on top of the first set of towels, which had been treated likewise. She flops down on the pile of towels, crossing her legs and folding her hands behind her head.

You stare. She's completely dry, dressed in what looks like a white nightgown and blue pajama bottoms with a spiderweb motif. She looks so young she could have been one of your old classmates from the Academy. It's eerie.

"I was thinking," she says cheerfully. "That we could have a slumber party."

You stare at her, a twisting, tingling sensation rising up your throat, and you don't bother holding it back.

You burst out laughing. You double over, knees weak, and grab the bathroom doorframe for support. This is ridiculous, undignified, what are you doing here? How did this become your life?

"I don't see what's so funny," Vriska mutters, sitting up and crossing her arms. "Isn't this a normal thing humans do?"

You try to compose yourself, wiping tears from your eyes. You haven't laughed like this in a long time. "It is, it's just- it's such a normal thing, but I - you're not normal. Neither am I! You're a god, and I will be, and it's not normal, and you come in here acting like we're old friends, and why are you making yourself look like a teenager?" You take a few calming breaths and straighten up, starting to get yourself back under control. "Are you trying to get me to let my guard down?"

She blinks at you, eyes wide and blue. Her mouth twists. "No, it's not that."

"Then what?"

Vriska frowns, looks away. "Maybe there's no big reason. Maybe I just want to paint my nails and shoot the breeze and relax in a non-godly way, once in a while. And maybe it's hard to find someone else to relax that way with. Maybe instead of questioning it, you should be flattered." The goddess crosses her arms.

You sit down and cross yours as well, mirroring her pose. "Relax? Lady Vriska "Irons in the Fire" Serket? You're surely joking."

"Well, I'm full of surprises!" she snaps. "Now let's do each other's hair or get makeovers or something."

You raise an eyebrow. "Apparently. Well, you should know that I've never had a traditional slumber party, per se, but I am aware of the cultural script. And makeovers are no doubt a better option than 'truth or dare.'"

Vriska snorts. "Yeah, you're not stupid."

You set up in your room, kicking your diary under the bed as you arrange cushions for you to sit on the comforter. Vriska insists on bringing the heap of towels as well, though their purpose still eludes you.

As Vriska adds her towels to your arrangement, you go into your mother's room. You haven't bothered with makeup since your preteen dabbling with black lipstick, but you have no shame in raiding your mother's vanity. Blue would look good on Vriska, you think.

Upon returning, you see that the Thief of Light has perched herself atop a considerable-sized jumble of sheets and cushions, which is in turn piled on top of your bed. Before you can remark on this arrangement, she speaks:

"Remember how we met?"

"I could not possibly forget," you reply. "Vriska, why-"

"I didn't make a great first impression, did I?" Vriska's expression seems distant. "Since I was plastered with happy honey. It was pretty pathetic of me, wasn't it?" She smiles, sadly, and gestures towards the mess on the bed. "Join me?"

With some trepidation, you climb into the pile of upholstery. She turns away from you. "Do my hair?"

Strange as it seems, this is your life now. You might as well go along with it. "...How do you want it?"

"I don't care at all."

So, with both of you sitting cross-legged on the bed, you braid the Thief of Light's hair into pigtails. Her wavy locks are thicker and stiffer than human hair, and they feel almost rough to the touch, a contrast to their silken appearance. Still, her hair is long, not like yours, and you can braid it as you've never braided your own. There's something satisfying in that.

"Yes, you were pathetic," you agree, after a taking the time to consider. "But that's okay. There... probably aren't very many other people my age who know how to deal with drunks as well as I do."

"Hm." You can't see Vriska's expression, but she doesn't sound elated to hear that. "But, I still should have tried to make a better impression. I let my grudge against Eridan get away with me, and I acted like a scrub." 

You're not entirely sure what the 'look' you're going for is, with these pigtails. Canadian lumberjane? Farmhouse-chic? Wednesday Adams? Maybe you could make her up as Dorothy Gale in The Wizard of Oz. The blue eyeshadow you stole would go nicely.

"Actually," you reply, "I didn't mind that much. I have a generally low opinion of gods in general. Your intoxicated state didn't do much to affect that." You pause, your hands stopping their motion as well and dropping down. Then you continue, your tone softer. "I minded it more when Eridan shot you."

Vriska's shoulders tense. "Well," she says, after a moment. "That doesn't matter much to me. It... wasn't the first time. But I'm sorry that you had to see it. It was probably unpleasant, to see death like that."

To your infinite surprise, she sounds sincere. "Yes," you say. "Although 'unpleasant' is rather an understatement."

Her hair is so thick, your fingers vanish into it, completely obscured in the black. If you squint, it almost looks like your hands are vanishing into tendrils of eldritch darkness.

"What did Eridan do to bother you so much?" you ask.

Vriska's head tilts downward slightly. "Nothing, really. He didn't do anything, personally."

You affix a clip-on bow with a cartoon pony decal to the goddess' hair, for no reason other than because it amuses you. Then, you tap on her bony shoulder and hand her a small mirror. "Done. So, what was it, then?"

Vriska blinks at her reflection in the mirror. Then, very suddenly, her expression scrunches up. "I killed someone," she says.

A year ago, you would have deadpanned back: "Is that really newsworthy?" and it's a testament to your maturity, or your tact, or your budding friendship, or something, that you don't. Instead, you quiet, and she turns around to face you on the linen pile. You listen. 

"Someone I liked. Someone who didn't deserve such a bad break." She sighs, puts down the mirror, curls up her legs, and leans her forehead against her knees. "This is stupid. Why am I telling you this?"

You have the same question, frankly, but instead you just nod. "Do you normally feel this way about killing?"

Vriska's face snaps up. "No! That's the thing! I don't! I kill idiots and stuck-up assholes all the time! And sometimes for other reasons too, but it's fine. They deserve it! But," she rests her face down again, and when she speaks again she sounds... strange. "She didn't."

"Then why did you do it?" you ask, quietly.

"I was upset. She told me something... truthful. And I didn't want to hear it anymore. So I killed her. That's all. It's... it's my prerogative as a goddess to do that, isn't it?" She still sounds strange, and you realize it's because she sounds... flat. Defeated. Lady Victory, defeated.

You pause a moment to consider your reply. "You know how I feel about that."

Vriska, goddess of Light, chuckles dryly. "Yeah, I do."

"So, I'm not going to tell you that what you did is okay. Because it wasn't." You lift one hand up, reach towards her a moment, then withdraw. "But it's progress, that you feel bad about it. I think. So that's good. You still need to learn to control your temper, and be held to consequences for your actions... but it's progress."

"I hate this," grumbles Vriska. "I didn't become a goddess so I could feel bad about it."

Your lips quirk upwards. "Well, great power comes with responsibilities, or so once said a beloved superhero movie character themed after your favorite arachnid."

She rolls her eyes and lowers her legs from their fetal position. "Responsibilities? Please, no, that's so last epoch."

You frown at her irritation. "You're a goddess, does that really not come with inbuilt responsibility?"

"The responsibilities came first, then came the godhood." She leans forward, ridiculous braids and all, and takes your hand in hers. "But I suppose you're going to learn about that eventually, too." As she continues, you stare down at her hand, holding yours. "You don't like responsibility, either. But you think some things are more important than your dislike. Right?" She smiles, closes her eyes, and brings your hand to her cheek. Her skin is cool and silk-smooth. "You'll be a better goddess than me."

You stare at your hand on her face. You feel oddly mesmerized. 

"Vriska Serket," you say softly. "Is this a pale solicitation?"

The goddess laughs, a little teasingly, but without mockery or cruelty. It's an unexpectedly pleasant sound. "It took you this long to figure that out?"

\-------

She's a goddess, but you're not normal, either. You still don't much like how the gods run this universe, but you're becoming self-aware enough to realize that, well, you're starting to like them more as people. They are flawed, immature, selfish, sometimes cruel. But they were mortals, once. Why do you expect them to be that much better than humans?

Still. It's... good, to have someone who confides in you. Someone who's not just there to teach you, to mold you, to be your superior. Someone to keep you company when Mother is in the lab for days on end, a warm body to lean on when she is black-out drunk.

She's not your mother, not your sister, not your friend, not your lover. She runs her fingers through your hair. She lays her forehead on your shoulder and listens to your problems. You listen to hers. There are times that summer she comes in angry, upset, wings spread and words burning blue. So, you make a soft nest for you both and clean her horns, rub her shoulders, stroke her face. She calms. Is this what is meant by moirallegiance?

Maybe it's helpful. Maybe you are making a difference this way, calming her and making her more likely to show mercy on her supplicants. But you know these are justifications. The truth is, you just like it.

Maybe, for now, that's enough.


End file.
